


The Language Of Synthetic Healing

by silasfinch



Series: Loving Niska S3 AU [2]
Category: Humans (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Gen, Injury Recovery, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-25
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-07-02 06:12:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15790605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silasfinch/pseuds/silasfinch
Summary: Astrid’s time in hospital and on the sidelines of war.





	The Language Of Synthetic Healing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [snappytxrtles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snappytxrtles/gifts), [ottermo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ottermo/gifts).



> I spend allot of time in hospital recovering from injury and infection - Inspired me to expand Astrid’s convalescence.

****

The Language of Synthetic Healing

  
It's so hard to forget pain, but it's even harder to remember sweetness. We have no scar to show for happiness. We learn so little from peace  
Chuck Palahniuk - American Author

“People are afraid of themselves, of their own reality; their feelings most of all. People talk about how great love is, but that’s bullshit. Love hurts. Feelings are disturbing. People are taught that pain is evil and dangerous. How can they deal with love if they’re afraid to feel? Pain is meant to wake us up. People try to hide their pain. But they’re wrong.  
American Singer and Poet Jim Morrison

I lie to Niska about how bad things are in the beginning.

Of course, my vague statements to a woman who calls so sporadically aren't lying really. It's not like Niska has the luxury of ideal chit chat, not with the violence reaching epidemic levels. My lover is running a terrible risk to hear that I'm ok and getting better, that associating with her won't cause any lasting damage. Its unfair of me to extract a promise from the vengeful synth but I know how close to the line she is, especially when her family or I am in danger.

Selfishly I want Niska out of danger for as long as possible. The idea of her being a pointless martyr in this war is my worst case scenario incarnate.

Of course, Niska is already trying the martyr track

Nobody is going to believe the collusion story anyway. The barest look at my online presence or encounters with friends will reveal synth sympathies. If they dig a little deeper they will brand me a 'dolly lover' by the modifications to my flat. There is no way I am going to lie about something so fundamental not when Niska hears terrible things about her family every single day. It's foolishly sentimental, but I'm is done hiding at least that little part of myself.

Loving a synth isn't a crime.

At least not yet.

***

The physical pain comes in waves, and the healing is torturously slow.

The doctors explain in sickening details precisely what happened after the explosion, going so far as to call me lucky. The term is almost offensive, with so many dead, but from an objective perspective, it fits. The shattered glass acts like boiling shrapnel and rakes my back in claw marks. The jacket Niska got me for no reason at all was a mediocre defence. Despite the morphine I almost scream when a lovely burns nurse tries to peel the material off me.

However doctors rate bomb fallouts mine are considered moderate to severe. The one on my left shoulder is especially bad, where the fire caught me as I flew through the air. Permanent damage is unlikely but scaring and residual pain is a possibility. The bomb being specifically designed to cause maximin impact and to slash dense synthetic skin.

I'm not an anxious person but from a purely practical perspective how is a bartender/barista suppose to work if they have shooting pain every time they bend over.

A problem for another day.

  
***

The psychological pain is almost worse, and there is so way to make the grief bearable. The news cycles are in free fall over synth terrorists. The official line is that I am not well enough to attend the memorial services. It is more likely the 'security risk' is too high. There is a hospital grief counsellor who comes round every few days. I am just paranoid enough to believe he could be fishing for information. It's an unfair assessment Kiann is a lovely Sikh man who wouldn't harm a single creature.

If I start talking something will slip out even if it’s just how much I miss my girlfriend. Kiann will spend his day off trying to find her.

Since leaving Berlin, I was finally starting to feel as if there was a place in the world for Niska and us a couple. In a single moment of misguided but desperate synth terrorism we lost everything, both present and future. Simon and Beverly were making comments about m being the manager while they went away for the summer. The only mercy now is that I was too injured to see their broken and twisted bodies.

When I scream from night terrors and sob into my standard hospital pillow, the nurses assign an 'Orange Eyes' to sit with me. It's probably some further injury - suicide prevention strategy. 'Joshua' doesn't leave my side and speaks in low, soothing German, keeping up a running commentary on 'good news' from my home country. No doubt there are protocol restrictions on him too. I should have found the presence of the 'safe synth' deeply offensive, and it was in a way. At the same time, I was so lonely that his pointless stories and instructions to breathe did keep me from having a full anxiety attack on a nightly basis.

He has a surprisingly good archive of German Punk rock and the best live concerts for the last few decades. He programmes the feed with great playlists.

***

Spending so much time with the 'orange eyes' gives me a unique perspective on synth-human relations.

An extended stay in hospital is a study in long periods of boredom punctuated by moments of extreme pain and weakness. Heck, right now the ability to shuffle to the bathroom and shower are significant achievements. The almost eatable jelly with dinner and check-ins with my parents are the highlights of the 24-hour cycle. Sleep is a non-event with security guards at the door and her synthetic nursemaids.

It makes sense that the philosophical questions would haunt me, there is only so many times you can watch budget news feed with any mention of 'synth' removed. My deliberately stringent filters leave me with British reality shows and soap operas. The prospect of looking for imaginary cracks in the flawless white ceiling is just pathetic.

Niska is so profoundly human by comparison. There wasn't a moment of doubt when Laura first told her the truth about her former lover. However, seeing the 'safe synths' up close reinforces the notion like nothing else. When you look close enough the signs are clear, from the way she moves to the way she treasures a cheap piece of string. The blond synth flinches like she understands the sensation of pain and occasionally smiles like she understands happiness.

***

"Your nutritional intake is insufficient."

I think spending time with Niska is influencing me. That's the only logical explanation for not bursting into tears when I recognise the emotionless voice and the extremely pale fingers. It still takes me a while to process that this is my Niska, her acting is so convincing. My long-dormant libido even thinks she looks good in the skin tight material. Hoodies only get you so far even if she steals them from me for sentimental reasons.

I do almost cry when she takes my hands - even with the sharp sting of betrayal that she will not or cannot keep her word about hunting and killing the rouge synths. Her eyes are alight with the victory, and I'm horrified to realise that Niska feels this is some gift. There isn't time for these ethical considerations; her cover won't last long, and I want to feel close to her for as long as possible. We can argue about human morality and synth obligations later, Niska will probably enjoy that idea. Kissing is impossible, but my fingers trace intricate patterns on her wrists trying to convey the same meaning.

"Try and stay safe, for me."

"I told you once you are the reason I care if I lived or died. There is nothing more important than returning to you and the life we have. Once this is over, we can run away to the Swiss Alps for a season. I'll even suffer through camp for miscreant and delinquent youth you want to volunteer for, I draw the line at hugging and singing though." Niska promises solemnly with her usual mix of monotone and intensity.

"Will you make an exception for cuddling and kissing me?" I ask with a smile.

"Always"

"That sounds lovely."

++++

My family do not believe my casual reassurances for a second, the only thing that stops Shaeffers from descending on the hospital en mass is the mostly accurate comments about visiting hours and infections. I don't want them to know that the police still think I'm a budding synth terrorist who needs monitoring. They barely settle for the comm link consultation with her doctors and medical staff.

"How are you feeling, Schatz? Is the pain getting any better?" my mother is squinting at me as if she can monitor me from thousands of miles away, her glasses taking up most of the screen.

"Are you still on track to come home in 10 days?" my father is fiddling with his collar anxiously.

"I'm doing better every day, walking around the wards now. The skin grafts are not inching anymore. I plan to live on your cooking for a while, Mama." My cheerful voice is almost sincere.

"You can have Bienenstich every night if you want, my darling" this is a significant sacrifice given that my mother doesn't like the puffy almond dessert even if her children love it.

"Is Niska looking after you, Astrid? I bet that one has all your medication schedules memorised" her aunt says affectionately waving from the other side of the split screen.

I swallow hard and try not to cry at the casual inquiry "Its hard for her to take time off work, but she is visiting and phoning whenever she can. Yes, she knows my every schedule better than I do."

Niska was close to asking about my urine output. There are some lines that couples shouldn't cross this early in their relationship. As it is I'm almost sure she hacks the medical mainframe to get my confidential records.

"We are having a party when you get home. Give me her details so I can send the invite and find something that fussy eater will enjoy." my aunt commands sharply.

My siblings are too broke to afford the com time, but they check in different ways. Her sister sends her a file with some of the latest queer move offerings with a loving note about sister dates soon. Clara promises to give me a makeover when she is home again. Lucas offers a range of books and plays surprisingly competitive word games. Spending all this time with Niska has done wonders for my vocabulary and ability to recall obscure historical events. Lucas keeps threatening to make us play in English or French, our second languages.

I read as many biographies of David Elster that I can find. At least the ones that aren’t sickeningly worshipful. There are only so many synonyms for genius in the world.

I have to know about Niska's creator and tormentor. There is so much of her past that is a mystery. He starts with good intentions but his ruthlessness comes through in every quote.

The prototypes didn’t stand much of a chance to be normal.

The books are in turn fascinating and frustrating. The process of learning how synths were conceived made me feel connected to Niska in a weird way. I'm know nothing about the science but the diagrams are easy to follow. I take note of some of the best ways to keep Niska's body healthy, changes in the house and environment. There is also a list of the best charging technology, sensory integration and skin protection. Mattie Hawkins even sends me a file on the best ways to help conscious synthetics. There are so many factors to consider from pain to taste and everything in between.

It's an alarming domestic exercise especially given the current uncertainty, but small acts of tenderness are a great distraction. She hopes that one day she has the opportunity to make a truly synth adapted home, right down to a comfortable charging chair.

Niska will roll her eyes at the expense insisting that she has everything she needs and doesn't want anything so fancy or specific. However, I know she secretly loves being taken care of, so few people have bothered in the past. I want to invent a birthday for her and make a big deal out of it, finding every rare philosophy book on the market.

***

"Your Cousin Hennri left this for you at the desk. The contents are clean security threats or other anomalies. He sends his apologies for not being able to stay" the synthetic voice offers cheerfully.

Two things struck me as odd at that moment. One all my family sends items using the conventional hospital mail which has been already. Two I don't have any cousin named Hennri.

The government wouldn't allow the hospital to blow up to get rid of her, would they?

The package is large in the simple brown paper. The note attached is suitably vague. The words give me hope "Green is our favourite colour too".

Inside there is a replacement cell phone - high range and more expense than she is familiar with, there are several apps already active, a messageboard scrolling sympathetic messages for the conscious synths. I also have access to create a member profile. There are also notices of several statements of a bank transfer- covering her salary for the last three months. Another app reveals a map of (secretly) synth-friendly homes and businesses where you can pick up parts or supplies.

Maybe she isn't alone after all.

  
***

The powers that be offer me an 'Orange Eyes' as a nurse and rehabilitation unit. This resource is either an uncharacteristic gesture of generosity on the part of the NHS or a sick punishment. It's probably the first opinion; I'm too lowly to torment. I have to be careful not to protest too loudly and attract more attention from the detectives.

In the end, we compromise, and I sign an AMA form.

I agree to an escort as far as the apartment I'm renting on the outskirts of London. The "orange eyes' will give me a detailed rundown of my medical needs and do my first bandage changes. He will also download instruction videos for my family. My parents will pick me up later in the week and take me home for the next month.

Frankly, I'm relieved to have a ride and an excuse to fall asleep in the taxi.

My body isn't adjusting so well to being off the medication and the prospect of having to move without assistance. It is quite horrifying how much my muscles have weakened in the weeks since the injuries. Its normal but having to shuffle towards the taxi stand is disconcerting. My nights of moshpits are over for now. It isn't a great loss given that the only person I want to dance with isn't by my side.

I'm trying to avoid looking at myself in the mirror or any reflective surfaces. My looks were always average, especially in comparison to my older sister. She spends a fortune to look natural and fight our genetic propensity towards lank hair and skin. Days of hospital food, stress and poor grooming has done me no favours; a lanky frame is now gaunt, and my hair looks like the home of an exceptionally untalented bird’s nest. I don't dare a glance at the scars everyone says are healing well but the feel ugly and raw. I refuse the mutual grooming from the 'human services' synth named 'Sarah'. No synth but Niska is going to touch me like that.

***

"So soon?"

It makes me so happy to hear the joy in Niska's voice at the notion I am coming home and we will soon be together. There is something wrong with her tone; there are odd frantic noises in the background. Niska's fake breathing is heavy and hitches at unusual places. The tone reminds me of the time she forgot to charge in favour of standing in line to get me tickets to my favourite band and refusing to give up her place in front. It was so frightening to see her every movement as a pained jerk and she barely stumbled to the port in time.

"Niska?" I call frantically trying to get her attention.

"I love you" she whispers frantically in response before hanging up.

My hands turn white holding the phone but I can't appear too desperate the orange eye is hovering at the other side of the door. I don't have the slightest idea what Niska is doing or planning, but the last words sound like a final goodbye or a warning. For all the ways I can read Niska she is still a enigma to me more often than not. There is something big going down, and I'm on the sidelines by accident and design.

This feeling reminds me of the stories my grandparents used to tell of the separations during the wars and Soviet times. The endless waiting for news and flinching every time the news came on.

  
Niska doesn't appear to pick me up.

I know that the chances were doubtful given what Niska is trying to do, but the disappoint is still sharp and fierce. As I sit alone in my apartment trying to summon the energy to move I answer the email more out of boredom than any desire to update the family. The alert looks like spam, and she would have deleted it if there wasn't a little emoji of a rainbow and a character of a philosopher.

The tears fall when Niska's face appears on the screen. The signs of irregular and poor charging are apparent, even if she is trying to hide the uncharacteristic shake and head jerks. The recording and sending of this message is a waste of precious minutes. How remote must she be to get this low?"

"Astrid, my mission is coming to an end. I want you to know that I will do everything I can to return to you and plan our future. Odds have never been especially in my favour. If this holds true now, please know that being with you is the light of my life. You are the reason that there is any good left in me and that I want lasting peace between our people. David Elster created me, but you gave me life and meaning. I'm sending you recordings of my favourite memories either for safekeeping or to remember me with your shaky human mind instead of a funeral live our legacy and say my name. I love you so much."

.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
